Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I’d been trying to talk to him about wedding stuff, and he didn’t . . .” I struggle to find the right words and settle on, “I was doing everything, which was fine. I’ve always been the planner.” All four of them must be fighting back duhs because yeah, that’s a major understatement. “But I wanted it to be our wedding. I tried to pick things Roy would like, or show him options on things, and he didn’t care about any of it. I’d be talking about an important decision, wanting his opinion or advice or something, and his eyes would glaze over or he’d start looking at his phone, taking for granted that I would figure it out. I would take care of it, the way I do everything.”
As the words I’ve been stuffing down for too long come to the surface, pouring out of my mouth and spilling past my lips to flood the room, the overwhelming emptiness that’s been a part of me for too long comes back in full force. I have to blink hard to keep it from swallowing me whole, but then my eyes return to unseeingly searching left and right, left and right, for understanding that never comes. “I started having nightmares, obsessively checking and rechecking lists, and thinking What’s next, what’s next, what’s next? Until I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t breathe; I was numbly letting myself drown day by day, drop by drop, until I realized that what I felt was . . . trapped.”
The outpouring of what I’ve been struggling with changes everyone’s mood instantly, making the room feel heavy.
“Why didn’t you say something, honey?” Mom asks gently, her hands clutched to her chest in pained sadness. “We would’ve helped you.”
I smile grimly. “I know, Mom. But that’s just it. It shouldn’t have been you helping. It’s this huge day that’s supposed to be so meaningful for both of us, signaling the start of our lives together, and I realized that’s what my life would always be like. Roy never engaging, never getting involved, or ever being excited about the things I am. If he cared at all, he’d simply say, This is what we’re doing, and I’d be left to make it happen. And if he didn’t care, well, it was still me. He always leaves it to me, and I end up doing everything alone,” I admit.
What goes on in the privacy of a couple’s relationship isn’t something other people are usually privy to, and I worked hard to make my relationship with Roy seem flawless. Not only to others, but mostly to myself. I can see now that I wasn’t doing anyone any favors by hiding the truth of our relationship. To outsiders, my running away is out of left field. For me, it’s been a long time coming, requiring courage I wasn’t sure I possessed but have been slowly building until it was enough.
“I got so caught up in us being the perfect couple, having the perfect life, being perfectly in love that I never stopped to consider, What if we weren’t?” I blink back tears, not at the thought of losing Roy but at losing so much time. “He doesn’t consider me. I’m like a table or a lamp, just a part of the scenery, and I don’t want to spend forever knowing that all I’m doing is sitting on the sidelines of his life. I want more than the same lonely day on repeat until all the boxes are checked, except putting me in a pine box that I’d probably have to come back from the dead to pick myself, too, because fuck knows Roy wouldn’t do it.” I mime marking that last box by drawing a check in the air.
“Hope,” Mom hisses, aghast at my dramatics.
But it’s true. Roy doesn’t want me, Hope Mercy Barlowe. He wants a secretary, a cook, a maid, a hole to use, and a trophy on his arm. I’m ashamed to say I’ve willingly been all those things for him and not much more.
“‘It ain’t always easy, but if you do it right, it’s the foundation for everything else in your life,’” Dad quotes, looking at me pointedly.
He lives by that saying. He loves Mom by that saying, and they’ve built a happy life on it, so it feels like a judgment being handed down from on high, like I’m the one lacking in my relationship with Roy. I look down at my hands, picking at my nails. They’re still picture-worthy, a classic wedding-day french manicure, which feels strange, given everything that’s happened since then.
Ben reaches over and stops my picking, wrapping my hand in his warm one. I stare at his fingers, long and strong, with calluses and jagged cuticles, toughened from his guitar playing. And when he runs his thumb over the sensitive skin on the back of my knuckles, the pounding of my heart slows because, like magic, he can settle me with a mere touch.